


Medical Department Poker Night

by circ_bamboo



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circ_bamboo/pseuds/circ_bamboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen stays to help McCoy clean up after a card game. And then they make another mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Medical Department Poker Night

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://boosette.livejournal.com/profile)[**boosette**](http://boosette.livejournal.com/), who wanted McCoy/Helen porn. Helen's not an OFC; she's from the TOS episode "Dagger of the Mind." Some of the seemingly-random choices I made will probably make more sense if you've seen the episode but otherwise it works just fine as a PWP.

McCoy loved Medical Department Poker Night as much as the next person, but occasionally, especially if Geoff M’Benga or Emerson Girard didn’t show up, he felt a little . . . outnumbered. Not _intimidated_ , or anything like that, but . . . outnumbered.

His head nurse, Christine Chapel, had the best poker face on the ship—at least, among those who played poker. He’d been watching her play for about a year now, and he’d never seen anything remotely like a tell pass across her face, or hands, or anything.

His OB-GYN nurse, Dana Cathcart, had quite a decent poker face and the best draw luck he’d ever seen. She’d flopped four queens on the previous hand and raked away something like half the total amount of money in the game. His fault, of course; he’d had a pair of eights and figured his full house would be high. It wasn’t.

Allison Jarvis, Dana’s girlfriend or partner or something and one of the backup EMTs, never really said anything to him, but he could nearly see her count cards before she made her bets. She played entirely mathematically, and yet she managed to win more than her fair share of hands. She was so nervous the entire time that he couldn’t tell the difference between when she had a good hand or a bad one, and he’d been burned—well, often enough that he should know better.

Dr. Helen Noel, ship’s psychiatrist, played deviously, and with a smile on her face, even when she announced that she won, and even when she responded to Christine’s snarky comments with her own acerbic wit. Even Ally Jarvis would laugh at her zings.

In short, McCoy walked away from Medical Department Poker Night with empty pockets every single week, and he didn’t _care_.

Plus, all four women were rather astoundingly beautiful, in his opinion. There were two lovely blonde women, tiny, busty Ally and tall, leggy Christine; and two brunettes, strikingly-dark Dana and curvy, sweet-faced Helen. He really tried not to notice that fact; especially Dana and Ally, who only had eyes for each other. Or Christine, who had been stepping out with one of the surgical nurses for the last few months. Or even Helen, who was—like the rest of them—technically one of his subordinates. He really _shouldn’t_ be thinking about her lips. Or her cheekbones. Or her legs, wrapped around—

Besides, she flirted like mad with Jim, any time he was near.

“Straight flush,” Dana said, dumping her cards on the table.

“Damnit!” Christine said. “I had a full house.”

“Two pair,” McCoy said, pitching his hand down.

“Ace high,” Ally said.

“One pair,” Helen said, with a sigh. “Does anyone have any money left, other than Dana?”

Everyone shook their heads; Dana managed to look smug and contrite at the same time.

“Well,” Christine said, “that’s probably my sign to get out of here.”

Ally yawned, and Dana smiled. “Us, too.”

They all stood, Dana sweeping the chips back into the bag they came from. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” McCoy said. “I can clean up.” They were, after all, in his quarters, being that the CMO had the second-biggest quarters on the ship.

“You’re sure?” Ally said.

“I’ll help,” Helen said.

McCoy opened his mouth to refuse, but found himself saying, “That would be great.”

She smiled at him, her eyebrows arching, brown eyes warm, and he lost his train of thought momentarily. When he came back, Christine patted him on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, McCoy.”

Dana waved, and Ally lifted a hand; a moment later, the room was clear except for Helen, the detritus of a good poker game, and himself. He tried not to think too hard about that while picking up glasses and putting them in the recycler.

When McCoy turned back to the poker table, Helen was sitting on the edge, her legs crossed, the tip of one boot barely resting on the seat of one of the chairs. He stopped dead in his tracks. The mini-skirted uniform left little to the imagination on the best of days, but with it riding up, he had a clear view of nearly her entire legs.

Which, of course, he shouldn’t be ogling. He quickly raised his eyes to her face.

She wasn’t _quite_ smiling at him, but her lips were pressed together and tiny lines appeared at the corner of her eyes in her amusement. “Oh, Leonard McCoy,” she said, “you’re more than welcome to look at my legs. Why do you think I’m still here?”

He coughed. “To help me clean?”

She laughed, bright and clear yet somehow sensuous. “Of course,” she said. “We’ll clean, and then we’ll make another mess, if that’s okay with you?”

“ _Hell_ , yes,” he said, snapping one of the folding chairs shut.

She uncrossed her legs slowly, as he watched, and pushed off the table. Before he could move, she dragged a hand down the front of his shirt, ending at his waistband, and said, in a low, breathy tone, “I’ll get the rest of the chairs. You get the table.”

They certainly weren’t the sexiest words a woman had ever said to him—the honor still went to Emony Dax, who said, “You have the hands of a surgeon and I’m flexible as hell. Let’s get naked.”—but they worked; he folded the legs under the poker table and set it in its usual corner in record time. When he turned back, the chairs were neatly stacked on one wall. Helen was bent over at the waist, retrieving a lost chip, her ankles crossed.

It was too much to resist. McCoy took two large steps to stand directly behind her, resting his hands on her hips, not quite on her rear end. “Helen,” he said, and heard her sigh.

She stood, slowly, and his hands slid from her waist up her sides, ending lightly over her breasts. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, and she let out a soft huff of laughter, turning in his arms to face him.

“Leonard, I’ve been trying to catch your attention since the ship set off.” She looked up at him through her eyelashes, a move he’d always considered ridiculous but somehow, when Helen did it, it looked . . . natural. “And I’m the one who’s invaded in your room, not vice versa.”

“Not invaded,” he said absently, as he stroked the back of his fingers along her cheekbone and ran a thumb over one of her eyebrows.

“Okay,” she said, a note of laughter in her voice, “not invaded. Nonetheless, it was my idea.”

“It was a very good idea,” he said. “It _is_ a very good idea.” He cupped her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers, angling his head and tracing his tongue just inside her lower lip.

She made a small noise in the back of her throat and stepped in closer, leaning into him. Without breaking the kiss, he reached up, buried his fingers in her hair, elaborately up in some complicated variation on a bun, and removed a hairpin, carefully. There was a small table somewhere behind them; he reached out, found the corner of it, and set the pin down. Removing four more pins in short succession, he finally found the pin that held the whole thing up on her head, and pulled it out. Her hair spilled down her back, a profusion of silky dark curls, and she broke the kiss to shake it out slowly.

It was another move he’d usually considered artificial, but again, when Helen shook her hair, he couldn’t help but watch in fascination. He took a step back and dropped to his knees, his hands going to the tops of her boots. He unzipped them and helped her step out of them, one at a time. Sliding his hands up her legs, he ignored the creak in his knees as he pushed the blue fabric of her uniform up until she had to raise her arms. A moment later, he threw her uniform on the table and looked back at her.

Helen was as composed in the black undershirt and shorts as she’d been while fully dressed. “Your turn,” she said. Slipping her fingers under the hem of his tunic, she pulled it off and set it on top of hers, letting the blue fabrics puddle together. She went for his trousers next, unfastening them and pushing them off his hips, and he leaned down to push off his boots and socks.

That task accomplished, McCoy stood, and pushed a lock of hair off her shoulder from where it had fallen. “Good God, you’re lovely,” he said, and she smiled, faint dimples appearing.

“As are you,” she said. “However, I think you’ll be lovelier if you remove the rest of this.” She ran one finger under the collar of his undershirt.

He raised an eyebrow, but crossed his arms in front of him and stripped off the offending garment. She pressed her hands to his chest, the moment it was revealed; he reached around her and tugged her undershirt over her head and down her arms. She dropped her hands from his skin briefly, to allow the undershirt to fall to the floor.

McCoy closed his eyes briefly and sucked in a breath. There was not an inch of her that was not perfect—well, most likely, there were a good deal of inches of her that were not perfect by whatever arbitrary standard was currently controlling but by his estimation, she was perfect. He traced the upper curve of one breast with the tip of his index finger, and she drew in a deep, shuddery breath.

He looked down at her, then over at the bed a few feet away, and dropped his fingers between her breasts to pop open the clasp of her bra before brushing the cups away from her breasts and the straps off her shoulders. She dropped her hands to her sides; the bra fell to the floor. Before it hit, though, he’d already started pushing her shorts and underwear down off her hips and to the floor as well.

She huffed a quiet laugh at his actions and pushed his underwear off him as well, carefully pulling the waistband out over his erection. He stepped out of the black fabric at the same time as she did, and a moment later, he hooked one arm behind her knees and the other across her back, and lifted her into his arms.

“What—” Helen wrapped her arms around his neck, but the trip to the bed lasted perhaps five seconds at the most. He set her down carefully in the middle of his bunk and paused for a moment, staring down at her.

“What was that for?” she asked as he joined her on the bunk, his hand finding the curve of her hip.

McCoy shrugged, one-sided. “Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“It was very romantic,” she agreed, and kissed him. “Now—” She slid a hand down his body and grasped his erection, tight against his abdomen, and he gasped. “Let’s step this up a bit.”

“Your wish is my command, ma’am,” he said, and cupped her breast in one hand while biting gently on the side of her neck.

She responded by tightening her fingers around him and swiping her thumb over the head. He gasped again and chuckled against her neck. “Is that how it’s going to be,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, but she answered anyway. “Only if you keep going so _slowly_.”

“All right, then,” he said, and pushed her on her back, one arm under her shoulders. His free hand—his left, but he’d always been fairly ambidextrous—skimmed over her stomach, threaded lightly through her pubic hair, and parted her folds. She let out a quiet moan, and turned her head to mouth along his jaw.

She was hot and wet against his fingers; he resisted the urge to dip his fingers inside her. Not yet. Instead, he stroked gently just over her entrance and then drew his fingertips up and over her clit. She moaned again when he started circling, her lips and breath warm against his skin. He turned his head to kiss her and swallowed her moans as he increased the pressure and speed. She tucked herself up against his body and pushed a foot between his shins; he took the hint and slung a leg over hers, and she strained against him, digging her fingernails into his arm. A moment later, she wrenched her lips away from his and jerked against him, letting out a deep, shuddering sigh.

“Oh, Leonard,” she said, a moment or two later, still panting against him.

He smiled, lips pressed to her temple. There was still something elementally satisfying about helping someone else achieve orgasm, and he allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction.

“You, now?” she asked, dropping one hand to grasp his erection again.

“Oh, no,” he said, “still your turn.” He brushed her fingers from him—as lovely as her grip felt, he needed to move—and rolled over her, knees between hers. Kissing her deeply, long strokes of his tongue against hers, he trailed his lips down her skin, tasting salt and musk until he settled his shoulders between her thighs. He looked up at her, licked his lips deliberately, and set his mouth against her.

Helen gasped, threaded her fingers through his hair, and clenched her hands into fists; he ignored the pull and concentrated on his task. She smelled of sweat and musk and something that was elementally _her_ , and he inhaled deeply through his nose while still licking and sucking and nibbling at her.

She began shaking under his ministrations almost immediately, but it still was the work of a few minutes to send her over the edge, sobbing his name. He smiled again, and dipped his tongue inside her, merely for the pleasure of tasting her, and she jerked again with a quick laugh.

McCoy pushed himself up the bed to kiss her, and she said, “Ohhh,” on a long sigh. When he pulled away, she had a wide, blissful smile on her face, her eyes closed, lashes fanning out on her cheeks. _Lovely_ , he thought, and smiled.

Reaching over to the drawer in the bedside table, he pulled out a condom, ripped open the packet, and rolled it onto himself. Her eyes opened when she heard the rip of the plastic, but she didn’t say anything, just nodded when his eyes met hers. He set his hands on the mattress just under her shoulders, lined himself up, and waited for her to twine her arms around his neck before he pushed in.

“Ohhh,” she said again. Her head tipped back, exposing a long line of throat, and he bent down to suck a mark just above her collarbone.

Once he bottomed out, he withdrew, gradually, and re-entered her at the same pace.

She lifted her head to glare at him. “What,” she said, “did I tell you—about going—so—slowly?”

His chuckle turned to a gasp as she clenched around him deliberately, and he found himself speeding up until he was nearly slamming into her. She didn’t seem to mind, though; she wrapped her legs around him and dug her nails into his back. He gritted his teeth; if she kept that up, he wouldn’t last long.

He held it back for a while, mostly by mentally reciting the periodic table of elements, but before too long, the smell and feel and _taste_ of her got to him and he felt the orgasm building at the base of his spine. Reaching a hand between them, he found her clit and pressed it with his thumb, stroking just faster than his hips— _just a little bit longer_ —and she came yet again with a sharp exhale.

Her body clenching around his was too much to resist; he climaxed with a deep groan, shaking against her, and collapsed for a moment before remembering the condom. His withdrawal made her gasp again, and he tied the condom off and pitched it in the trash next to his bed before slinging an arm over her waist, pulling her to his side, and listening to her heart pound.

“So you’ve been trying to get me into bed for how long?” he asked a few minutes later, tracing patterns around her navel, connecting the beads of sweat that had formed on her skin.

“Mmmm, a year,” Helen said. “Maybe longer. When did we set off?” She covered his hand with hers; brought it to her mouth, and kissed his fingers.

“But you always flirt with Jim,” he said. He realized a moment too late that talking about Jim while he was naked and pressed up against a naked Helen Noel was a bit strange, but he’d already said it and he couldn’t unring the bell.

She laughed lazily against his hand and nipped at his thumb. “You noticed.”

“I did,” he said, and stopped before he said anything else.

“It annoys him,” she said. He looked at her, raising an eyebrow, and she continued. “A couple years ago, at a Christmas party at the Academy, Kirk spent half the evening flirting with me. He was pretty drunk at the time, and I knew it, so when he promised he’d remember my name and number, I didn’t really have any hopes, even if he did say pretty things about the stars. Now, he knows he should know who I am, other than ship’s shrink, but can’t for the life of him remember why.”

McCoy paused for a good five seconds at the end of Helen’s story before laughing. “You flirt with Jim because it annoys him.”

“Yes,” she said, laughing along with him.

“I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more,” he said.

She turned on her side, away from him, and he curled around her, threading an arm beneath hers. A stray hairpin poked him in the cheek, and he pulled his hand back to remove it and toss it aside.

“Mmm,” she said, and wriggled backwards until she was firmly against him. “Don’t mind being outnumbered at poker night?”

He snorted. “Not if it ends like this.”


End file.
